Persuasion, Firewhiskey and Family History
by the lights above
Summary: Soon they were on their way, on their way to getting away from the lies of seven years and a bazillion times that of family history. / RoseScorpius / T themes / Written for the Song Lyric Prompt Challenge at HPFC.
1. Rose

_Common disclaimers apply._

_Written for the Song Lyric Prompt competition at HPFC. My prompt was "I should have known you were trouble from the first kiss". I hope I do not disappoint._

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><p>The Firewhiskey from the bottle he'd forced into her hands coursed through throat her like blood throygh veins and she giggled with her head against a comfortably broad shoulder. His hair was soft and pale and mixed well with her red and she laughed again when he turned his head and saw that his lips were covered in the blood-red lipstick she had been wearing at the start of the evening when she'd arrived for Prefect patrol duty to be manipulated by this beautiful boy.<p>

He wasn't a bad boy, though, rather fun and drunk too. She didn't remember his name but she remembered how his knuckles felt brushing her torso when he pushed her against the wall in the fifth corridor and kissed her. He was a good kisser, this boy, with raw bruising lips and a slithering tongue and hands that didn't need vision to guide them. He knew such words too.

He uttered one such word as he bent to push up the hem of her school shirt higher so he could kiss the skin there and she followed his cussing with rolling eyes and fisting fingers. His hair was silver and soft, trapped between her white fingers, and soon they were on their way, on their way to getting away from the lies of seven years and a bazillion times that of family history.

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><p>Time passed slowly the hour she spent sitting next to him in class and she was so ashamed she could not look at him. He was oblivious, the end of a quill scratching his soft, silver hair, a cuss word on his lips, the lips that had pressed so insistently, so persuasively against hers a night ago, as he tried to understand the concept the teacher was explaining.<p>

She had enjoyed the time with him immensely, when he'd pressed exquisite kisses to her collar and slid his hands under her and had whispered her name in bliss, but when he hadn't recognized her later and she had remembered his name in turn, she thought she would die of shame.

She blames herself more than she can blame him. She should have known.

He was a player, a man-whore. She was a masochist, ready to sacrifice her dreams for reputation. He was trouble walking on two long gifted legs, with persuasion tattooed into his tongue. She was the smartest witch in her year and she was sensibility defined. He was Scorpius _Malfoy_, with glittering money and silver hair and a beautiful face and she was Rose _Weasley_, with brains and large hair and war-heroes for parents. How could _she_ have made such a mistake?

She should have known that he was trouble right from the first kiss.

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><p><em>Too short? Likable? Satisfactory? Review to tell me.<em>


	2. Scorpius

_Previously classified as complete, but I got some reviews telling me that the ending was unsatisfactory and it'd be better if I did a Part Deux. So, here we are, not exactly an alternative ending or a follow-up but a side (using Scorpius' perspective, to give you a better interpretation of whatever happened and to see why they could not have just picked up after)._

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><p>Scorpius hated Firewhiskey.<p>

He'd tried it twice before, the first time during fifth year when James Potter had thrown a celebration party for something and he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He thinks that must have been the night he started mistrusting the Potter boys.

The second shot he had it some while ago, at a Quidditch victory party after Slytherin had won a match against Hufflepuff. For reasons he still couldn't figure out, he'd accepted the glass of Firewhiskey some sixth-grader had passed him with a grin and a cheery congratulation on having caught the Snitch to secure a win (a rare case in the case of Slytherin, even with their skilled Seeker).

Both times he had gone uncontrollably wild, doing certain unthinkable things like admitting that he thought Rose Weasley was attractive to her cousin in the first case and performing a slow strip-tease right to his underwear in the second. No wonder he hated drinking.

This repulsive hatred was the exact reason why Scorpius was not sure if he was doing the right thing, or if getting drunk would even give him a better chance. He couldn't ensure control over himself, and he definitely did not want to look like an arse in front of _her_.

He shrugged doubts and careful calculations and the knot at his brows away when she came rushing into the corridor, a mass of raspberry-scented red hair and pallid freckle-spotted skin and plain loveliness. He turned to her with a smile and a twirl of his fingers on the rim of the bottle which he extended to her.

She was drunk before she had taken a sip. Just like he was, to be in such close vicinity to her, to be drinking in her scent and taste, to have his lips brushing her, folding over her skin, to have his fingers knotting in her hair and the back of her shirt.

And then the Firewhiskey was carrying them both away, to a Far Far Away place where he wished to spend eternity with her, and he had forgotten why had ever doubted the plan or hated Firewhiskey.

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><p>Scorpius was not a perfect person.<p>

What he had done last night should be proof enough, he thought. To make such a mistake as to have meddled with her, to have broken a bazillion years of family history for the sake of temptation and hormonal desires _(not just that, though)_, to have made the mistake of having whispered, no, _screamed_ her name when he should have gone with the facade of not even knowing her, and to have pretended, to have accepted the lie, that was enough proof how very imperfect he was.

But Scorpius had to pretend otherwise, for her sake, so as not to hurt her, knowing that if he had even tried to carry it on further than a single night of drunken encounters and forgotten rules she would end up with severed ties with her family _(and she loved them so and he loved her too much to let her do that)_ and he would walk away only with a broken heart.

He hated acting cold, and looking unfeeling when he was on the verge of breaking down but sometimes, people are good at what they hate and sometimes, they need to be. So, he pretended. For her sake.

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><p>The next drop of Firewhisky he had was at<em> her<em> wedding, watching her being wrapped in an embrace by some brown-haired boy through narrowed eyes from the back row of the hall, and he'd raised his glass in a toast to her happiness and to that _one perfect night_.

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><p><em>I'm not sure how this will be received but I beg you not to send me flames.<em>


End file.
